


Liquid

by livia_bj



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friendship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livia_bj/pseuds/livia_bj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I go solid when you get around"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liquid

**Author's Note:**

> Warning/Spoilers: Minor references to Season 2.
> 
> Drabble based on the song Liquid by The Rasmus. But not a sonfig.
> 
> Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Godtiss, BBC big bosses and many other people but not me. I don’t make any money with this kind of things. Sherlock and John belong to each other.   
> Liquid belongs to The Rasmus

“I go solid when you get around”

The words stormed out from Sherlock’s mouth, though his eyes were still glued to the microscope. John was behind him, trying to put some order into the kitchen’s shelves. He froze.

“I mean _it_. _It_ goes solid.”

“The experiment?

“Yes.”

“When am I around? How can that be even possible?”

Sherlock looked at him and he tried to hide a knowing smile.

“Oh please.” Sherlock snorted. “Don’t get me wrong.”

“No, no. I couldn’t get that wrong. If you go…ehmm…solid because of me.”

“I didn’t mean that!”

“Okay, okay.”

John chose to move away to the living room. A tactic movement. He took a book and sat on the couch. Some minutes later Sherlock followed him while letting out an exasperating sigh.

“What are you experimenting on anyway?”

“On me.”

He grabbed his violin and started to play. It helped him to channel his thoughts. It wasn’t a secret anymore; the way John could get him go from liquid to solid. Not in that little stupid and limited sexual sense of the metaphor. It was something beyond that. It was something that Sherlock could only express through the music or using ideas related to science, a field where he could feel more comfortable in. He looked at John, he was pretending that he was still reading but really he was only paying attention to the music, enjoying the sound.

Not many people could mess with Sherlock’s mind, and John was one of them. Not because he had a sparkling intellect; he wasn’t a criminal mastermind like Moriarty, he didn’t challenged him constantly like Irene Adler.

While John was more clever than the stupid average human being he was still… well, John. And there was the mess. The things he did when Sherlock wasn’t expecting him to act like that, and the things he didn’t do when he was supposed to do them. The feelings he had for that man. More than a friendship. Less than love. Was it really less than love? No, it wasn’t.

He knew something big was coming. He knew Moriarty wasn’t the kind of man who just retreats in the shadows and forget about his favourite new toy. He was watching him, watching them. He was positively sure that Moriarty had slipped into their flat more than once. He never told John ‘cause nothing was taken, nothing was even touched. Apparently he just liked to be there. Yes. Something big was coming. It wasn’t a game anymore. Damn, it wasn’t funny anymore. It stopped being funny the moment John was involved in the pool. And Sherlock was beginning to be scared. Like in Dartmoor. But this time it was because he knew Moriarty wouldn’t stop until one of them (or both) was dead. And he wasn’t used to be scared like that, but now he was. After the drugs, the occasional shootings, after a dangerous life without taking care of himself. After all that, he didn’t want to die now. Not now. Not now that he had a home to come back to. Not now that there was someone else who it was worth to live for. And there he was again: John. John. John. John.

I AM PATHETIC. His brain screamed.

Sherlock missed a note. John noticed it.

The detective threw his violin on the chair and stormed out of the living room. Seconds later John heard him closing his bedroom’s door. Puzzled he kept staring the empty spot next to the window where the man had been playing until… until what?

John knew Sherlock better than anyone else. He knew everything about him. And still didn’t know him at all.

His music had been soft at the beginning, very melodic, that indicated a general trail of thoughts. But suddenly it changed, the rhythm became quicker, almost frenetic. A delicate spot had been touched there, something that made him angry. And then the melancholy and the sadness, followed by the missing note. What Sherlock had been thinking about? John wished he could know.

Like that experiment they had been talking about earlier, his life in 221B Baker Street could go from liquid to solid in a matter of minutes. But that was part of it, part of the best time in his life. He was lucky being there. Of being who he was; Sherlock’s only friend in the world. It was a selfish thought, and he should feel guilty about it. And yet it was the right thing. He loved being his assistant, his guide, his friend, his… lover, without being lovers. That was the most strange but marvelous part of everything.

He couldn’t deny it anymore, it wasn’t a secret for the people they shared their lives with. Of course they were in a relationship: there was a deep commitment, there were fights and make ups, there was trust, there were nights sitting by the fire and nights running out for their lives, there were laughs and private jokes, and things you do for the other one even if you don’t really want to, there were texts in the middle of the night when John was out of London and there was the feeling of coming back home once he was back next to Sherlock. He belonged to Sherlock, and damn if it that wasn’t a relationship. They didn’t have to fuck to prove it. Love was showed in many other ways at their home. And if someday in the future they feel the need of sharing more than that… then it will be fine. It will be perfect.

“John.”

The doctor blinked twice. He was so lost in his track of thoughts that he didn’t notice that Sherlock was back. The dark haired man was looking at him from above.

“Yes?”

“I’d like… I… I want to sit here.”

“Yes. Of course.” John tried to lift himself up from the couch but was stopped by Sherlock.

“No. You can stay too. If… you want to.”

So John stayed still. Sherlock sat next to him. For a second it was weird, then Sherlock leaned on John and curled himself on the couch, resting his head in John’s lap.

YOU’RE PATHETIC. His brain screamed again.

“Yes.” Sherlock muttered. “But only this time.”

“Did you say something?”

“No. you can carry on with your book.”

And like everything with Sherlock, that was weird but right at the same time. Sherlock rarely was so willing to be so close to another human being. Luckily for him, John wasn’t just another human being. Fifteen minutes passed by before Sherlock spoke again.

“John. If I had to leave…”

“What? Where?” John left the book aside. “You mean like… for a case out of London?”

“Yes. That. If I had to go and you weren’t here to tell you and your phone was dead so I can’t call you… How would you know?”

“You could always leave a note, I guess.”

“A note?”

“Yeah. That’s what people do.”

Sherlock remained in silence.

“Why? Is there out there an interesting case?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. Haven’t decided it yet.”

John knew there was something on his mind. Maybe it was related with the music episode that had happened earlier. His heart ached remembering the sadness in the final notes, but he tried to keep calm. He rested a hand on Sherlock’s hair and caressed it softly.

“If there’s anything I can do you know you can count on me, even if that means a trip to who-knows-where.”

“I know.”

“And still if you’re planning to go… Stay in touch, Sherlock. Just… stay in touch.”

Sherlock didn’t answer and John, guessing that the conversation was over picked up his book again. He kept his other hand caressing Sherlock’s dark curls.

The detective closed his eyes. If that was the love people lived for, how come he didn’t know it earlier.

“Show me.” He muttered before falling asleep. “Show me an easy way out.”


End file.
